


but tell me, what blooms in the shade

by refuted



Category: The Originals (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 03:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10935621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/refuted/pseuds/refuted
Summary: Somewhere between a ring and a bottle of tequila, Freya starts to resemble something like a human.(Or: Freya remembers what it's like to feel feelings.)





	but tell me, what blooms in the shade

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, hello I haven't written in two years. This is for anon, who seriously made my week with nice words and stuff.

 

Keelin smells like lavender. Like fresh air and gardens and an open field.

Keelin smells like lavender, until she smells like tequila, breath warm and wet on Freya's cheek as she reaches from behind her to pour them their fourth helping. (Perhaps their fifth, Freya has lost count.) She lingers there a moment, pressing against Freya as she puts the bottle back on the table, and Freya catches a whiff of lavender.

Briefly, she wonders which might taste sweeter.

They toast, take the shot in full, and Keelin exhales through a half-grimace, crinkle at the bridge of her nose, brows dipped. Briefly, Freya lets her mind wander further.

 

Earlier:

She settles in the clocktower cot, poring over a medical journal on her newly procured laptop as Freya reads through an old spellbook. There is an agreement between them and Keelin seems ever eager to fulfil her part of the deal.

Bound and beaten and drained and released.

Leashed.

Why wouldn't she want to finally put some distance away from the evil witch of New Orleans? Cure or not, Freya tore her from what was quite possibly a nice life.

Cure or not, she might have been right - might just be the Mikaelson villain in Keelin's story.

Reminds her of someone.

Freya sighs, tries to roll out the sudden tightness in her neck.

"You alright?"

Keelin looks at her from across the room, chin perched on an open palm. She sets her laptop aside, stretching for a moment before returning her gaze. Maybe it's concern she sees there.

But then again, maybe not.

Freya wonders when she started to care either way.  

 

The sounds of the room:

Keystrokes and pages rustling and the occasional sigh. Creaking wood and incoherent mumbling and a _shit_ or two every so often.

She gets a captionless photo from Rebekah, a selfie in a beach that could be anywhere but might just be along the French Riviera, Kol right beside her.

They look happy. Maybe she'll come around to joining them when this is all done.

(Unlikely.)

The rest of the day, it's just the two of them.

Sometimes, Freya thinks she catches Keelin watching her from the other side of the room, head dipped, brown, brown eyes peeking up behind curls the length of forever. A heat trickles up the back of her neck when she turns away. She tries not to look back.

Freya likes the attention and she doesn't. Doesn't really know what to do with it, with the pulse that creeps between her thighs when she gives in, catches a glimpse of Keelin worrying at her lower lip.

She wonders what Keelin might do if she walked over, tried to soften the dip between her brows.

Freya looks away just before Keelin notices the audience, buries the thought as she switches spellbooks.

Eventually, Keelin disappears.

Freya picks up on the absence some time later. Maybe a long time later, she's not quite sure. She comes out of a spell a bit hazy, heavy-headed; another dead end. Her back aches and she begins to feel a little suffocated, wonders if they both wouldn't benefit from a bit of fresh air.

"How are you doing over there?" she asks, to no one.

Freya looks up at an empty room.

"Keelin?"

The laptop's grown cold, the mattress no longer dipped where Keelin had sat. She considers the obvious, supposes she had it coming.

Still.

"Fuck," she sighs out, swallowing down the makings of what feels suspiciously like disappointment. It burrows into her chest, leaves a dry taste in her mouth. 

She doesn't get much of a chance to process what that's supposed to mean exactly, as Keelin huffs along the staircase, arms around a large brown paper bag pulled against her chest. "Couldn't have found us a clocktower with an elevator?"

 _You came back,_ she almost says. She catches herself.

Instead, "What's this?"

"Tequila. Also, dinner."

Freya blinks. She feels a little ridiculous, a little at a loss, a little relieved. How unfamiliar.   

"Food. Humans eat it sometimes. Kind of need it to live." Keelin sits on the cot and sets the bag down beside her. "You should try it sometime."

Keelin smiles at her own joke, soft and warm and kind. She proffers one of the take-out boxes, and Freya walks over. "I hadn't realized it'd gotten so late."

Keelin hums.

"Yeah, I've been there before." She pats an empty spot on the bed, and Freya settles cross-legged next to her, helps herself to what could possibly be the best gumbo she's ever had.

Keelin moves the bag out of the way, faces her and they slip into a comfortable silence. Eventually, Keelin motions for a switch and Freya trades boxes, lets her finger linger a moment over Keelin's and this, she seems to notice.

She could get used to this.

 

* * *

 

 

Freya tastes like an ocean breeze. Freya tastes like hundred-year-old scotch, like a breath of fresh air.

Freya kisses her and she tastes real.

Once upon a time, Keelin might have torn her throat out given the chance. Might have gotten her brain melted in the attempt, but the hate and the rage and the desperation flowing in her would have made even the smallest opportunity worth the risk.

Once upon an hour ago, Keelin might have revelled in the chance to rip into the creature responsible for stopping her heart.

How the hell did she let that happen.

(She knows.

Somewhere between a ring and a bottle of tequila, Freya starts to resemble something like a human. Somewhere there, she looks at Keelin with those deep green eyes and doesn't look away and maybe she sees a bit of want.

Somewhere there, she wants her back.)

Freya runs the back of her hand along her temple, down her cheek, and Keelin closes her eyes. Keelin leans into the touch, and Freya sighs as she kisses her palm.

"Take me home."

 

Home is not a belltower cot, but it's close enough and anyway, Keelin has never been particular about the word.

Keelin leads Freya up the stairs, stopping at the side of the bed. Briefly, Keelin lets herself get caught in the trance that is Freya Mikaelson, looking at her like she might never want to leave. Then, Keelin takes a half-step forward, closing a small distance. Freya leans into her, kisses her slowly, slowly, as she slips her hands along her jaw, fingers pressed against the back of her neck to bring them closer.

 

"You scared me."

Keelin huffs, relishes just a little in this affection, in the disparity. She can't think of a word that does justice to the sight of Freya wide-eyed and splayed on the floor. To the sound of her gasp when she finally comes back to the realm of the living.

(To her.)

"I scared _you?_ " she says.

Freya sits on the bed. Leans toward her, resting her forehead against Keelin's leg with a quiet sigh. This is a foreign sight, the mighty Freya, looking so small. Keelin lays her hands over Freya's shoulder, thumb nestling along the crook of her neck, tracing a path into her hair. Perhaps it's foreign to her too.

Finally,

"I'm exhausted."

 _Dying will do that,_ she almost says, but holds the thought. Maybe she'd do better without the reminder.

Powerful as she is, Freya Mikaelson is mortal.

(Once, that was an incentive.

Now? 

She's not sure. An admonition, maybe.)

Keelin nods.

 

Elijah, standing over them.

She thinks that's his name at least, she's not sure she has them all down quite yet. The one who let her go.

The sun is up, the air still and crisp before the New Orleans humidity can set in, and one of the Mikaelson brothers is standing a few feet away with his hands in his pockets. Keelin wonders how the guy can really wear a fucking suit in this weather.

He clears his throat, acknowledging her with a slight nod before looking away, providing them with what seems like a courtesy.  

Her arm is around Freya, palm flat on her stomach, rising and falling with deep, even breaths. Their legs tangle underneath a thin blanket, Freya's foot hooked around her ankle. She might have liked waking up like this.

Keelin slips her hand up to Freya's shoulder, shakes her softly.

Freya flinches awake, inhaling sharply. For a moment, Keelin affords herself a glare toward the intruder, but it looks like he gets it. He doesn't seem like the soundest sleeper either.

One of these days she'll get Freya a night off, a morning to sleep in.

For now:

"Hey," Keelin says in a half-whisper.

Freya looks over her shoulder, proffers what might be a smile before she turns her attention up.

Elijah gestures outside with a tilt of his head and walks away without so much as another look in Keelin's direction.

Freya sits up, finding Keelin's hand along the bed and giving it a soft squeeze before she stands to follow her brother.

 

Keelin wakes as the bed dips.

Freya, sitting beside her with a leg tucked under, the other draped off the bed. Her hand brushes down Keelin's arm, to her palm. She looks pensive, maybe a little sad. "Everything alright?"

Freya shrugs. "Same old crisis."

"Do you need to go?"

"Not right now."

A beat.

Then, "Last night," Freya begins, trailing off for a moment. "Did I push you off the bed?"

Yes. Her elbow pulses where she thinks she might be developing a bruise. Nothing that won't heal.

Keelin shakes her head. "It's not exactly made for two."

Freya winces, smiling sheepishly. Makes a promise to help her find a better place. "And an actual bed to go with it."

Keelin likes the thought of that.

Already feels like home.


End file.
